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User blog:Bmsma17/The Lowly Farmer Sample - Chapter 1
''Hey everyone, so this is just a sample for the first book, A Lowly Farmer, which has just left the first draft and is entering into it's second. This isn't perfect, and the grammar isn't neither but I just thought I would give you a taster of what the book is going to be like so enjoy. '' As morning awoke in the lands, a thick layer of fog arose near the feet of the orange mountains. Gentle birds chattered, the fresh autumn breeze and a sense of freedom began in the lands of Duchon. The grass was emerald; bright and sparkling for it had been raining the day before, leaving autumn dew. More than two miles away from the orange mountains, rested stone walls and structures of man. Great towers of old, buildings that dwelled hundreds of people, for it was the western city of Nifi. Many people made Nifi their home, for almost the entire population of the west lived in this fabled city with its great stone walls that could frighten the dark magic and send them afar. The streets were laid with the fanciest stone anyone could ever find, with lanterns giving off strands of golden light onto the pavements. Buildings made of wood and stone with great roaring fires. The city that never slept and was nicknamed, “The Richest Province,” in the entire world; much to the dismay of the other great cities. The city also resided large paddocks to the western district of the city where crops grew and, as it was nearly harvest, the corn shone golden. At night, the taverns would be filled with the younger generation whilst the elders rested in front of their fireplaces, fearing for the cold, bite of winter to reach these lands from the far north. But it was the owner of the largest field of wheat, that worried for winter the most. The owner, the old Windfrey, was highly respectful by all the residents of the fine city. He was a part of the long Enamo line, traditional farmers through and through the centuries. For most of modern history, the Enamo family had built up a grand reputation; a reputation which Windfrey wanted to preserve the most. In his finer days, he had long black hair which rested on his shoulders like strands of liquorice. It wilted away with old age, his hands that were once nimble and precise now shook with fear and dread. His feet would shake and rattle as he walked, requiring the assistance of a wooden walking cane which had once belonged to his grandfather. For most days, he would wear a long red robe which was his fathers, along with dusty, old leather boots that had seen better days. In the early hours of this fine morning, over the hearth Windfrey was heating up some bacon and eggs on a metallic pan. It sizzled and spat with vigour like that of a fire-breathing dragon, but this was a dragon that Windfrey could tame. He held a metal rod, poking the eggs before sliding it underneath the fine food. Carefully, he lifted the eggs to his clay plate which resided on the table, where the old man sat down with a fine cup of tea. His house was large, with a kitchen to the far north of the house where a table and cupboards, (which stored carrots and crockery) resided. Through an archway, the main living room revealed itself, which resided a brick hearth with a few giant kettles and pots. In the winter, the hearth would be the centrepiece of the entire house, but Windfrey was currently squeezing the warmth out of the late summer by having every window open. A large, red rug laid on the floor whilst a coat of arms rested on the mantelpiece. There was four doors on the eastern wing of the house, one leading to the toilet, another to the outdoors which held the infamous Enamo plot of land. The other two led to the bedrooms of Windfrey and his drunkard of a son respectively. Windfrey’s hands were shaking as he sat down and lifted the porcelain cup to his mouth. His nose drooped down as he raised his bottom lip. Taking a deep breath, he smelt the tea, before taking a small sip. “Curses,” he proclaimed under his breath, "this tea is too dang hot!" His voice was weary as he let the years go by like the flow of the seasons. Sunbeams fell down through an open window as the early morning birds called out. In the far distance, the unmistakable sound of a cart being moved with the regular, “Good mornings,” and, “Good day,” that was so common in the rural areas of the city. The enchanted morning glow shone the left side of Windfrey’s face. With a bone cracking noise, he looked out to see the sun’s embracing glow rising above the terraced houses. “Is it that time already?” he whispered to himself, “Golly gosh!” He stood up, leaving his breakfast untouched. He shuffled to his son’s room and with a simple turn of the door handle, it creaked open to reveal a large spacious room. The walls were made out of thatched wood and the woodwork was made out of the finest pine from the southern Plains of Eldór. There, in the centre of the room, was a large bed and inside rested the drunken Wislon at the base of a window. Wislon was a drunkard, plain and true, with dark brown eyes and gentle stubble covering his chin. His hair was dark ash which sprawled across his scalp like an octopus, always messy. Meanwhile his face had creaks and cracks although Wislon was only twenty-six. Ears strong and proud, pointing up like that of an elf as he had the blood in him, whilst his fingers were short and similar to fat sausages. Out of the side of his mouth came the small tear of drool for just last night he was out drinking with his friends. Wislon was a well renowned drunk, spending most of his days in the local tavern with his fellow friends. “Another drink, barkeep!” he would yell whilst his friends would all laugh and cheer. He had become infamous for starting fights and feuds, including one terrible event which left him with a black eye. For weeks afterwards, Wislon never left his home for the fear of becoming the city’s jester and fool, much to Windfrey’s annoyance of his social status. “Wislon!” Windfrey whispered as he sneaked towards his son’s bed, “Wislon!” He became louder, “Wislon! Accurse you, wake up Wislon!” His young boy shrugged as he moved to lay on his side, “Let me sleep…the fairies have met me!” he proclaimed in short grunts. It was unbelievable to think he was the son of the Windfrey Enamo. The old man placed his hands on both of Wislon’s shoulders, shaking him violently, “Blame the Gods for giving me such a dreadful, drunk babe. Wake up! Wake up, Wislon!” he shook harder as the eyes of Wislon began to open up. Windfrey continued, “Wake up!” He peaked open his eyes, seeing his weak old father call commands to him. “Father…” he whispered as he tried to force himself up, “father…let me rest for just…five more minutes.” His father let go of Wislon, “Fine!” he shouted as he stormed out of the room, “Sleep and miss the fine acorns, little squirrel.” The old man slamed the door with a bang that awoke his son. Wislon pushed himself up as he wiped the sleep out of his eyes before stretching his arms. Yawning, Wislon took a large glance across his room; his ruck spin tunics sprawled across the floor with no care as he returned from heavy night drinking. “What…” Wislon yawned, “…time is?” he noticed his father had left the room as he dragged out the quilt from his body before leaving the bed. Peeking out of the open door, Wislon saw his father eating breakfast at the dinner table. The old man hesitated with every chew that he took as his teeth were worn and filed down. Then, Wislon took this as a moment to let his father know that he was up. He groaned, “Father, I’m awake.” Instantly, his father slapped the cutlery onto the plate with a clatter, “Hmf!” Windfrey shut his eyes as he pulled the chair he was sat on away from the table using his wrinkled hands before standing up. Walking with a limp, the old man sat on a large armchair in the living room, not paying any attention to Wislon. “Father…” Wislon tried to smile at his father. “Enough is enough, Wislon!” Windfrey yelled, slamming his hands onto the arm rests of his chair. “You sleep all day and drink all night, coming home trailing mud all over the carpet at all hours! Every single day!” For once in his life, Windfrey was finally erupting his anger, “Blessed by the Holders that your mother isn’t here to see you.” Wislon looked blankly at his father, pointing at him as his cheeks flushed red. “Don’t you dare bring my mother into this!” “Some days I don’t, but now is a time for it to be brought up.” Windfrey cried as he shook his head violently across in a fit of rage. “Autumn is here and I am too old to barely hold a scythe. The line of succession passes to you, Wislon Enamo, so go out there,” he pointed to the window, “and farm!” Wislon was going to say something, words that had built up inside him for twenty-one years. But now wasn’t the time, something told him not to so he ended up storming into his room, slamming the door with a powerful bang. Left alone, Windfrey scoffed as he gazed at the burning hearth; such beautiful flames. For a few moments, he listened to the birds calling out in the morning sun but it was disrupted by the sound of Wislon’s rustling feet in his room. “Wislon!” Windfrey called out, now more calm than his anger as his age was finally revealed in his voice. “Wislon, I’m sorry!” The oak door opened slowly as Wislon leant against the doorframe with his arms crossed. He still looked messy but now wore a green cotton tunic over his chest along with roughspun trousers. “What do you want, father?” he groaned like an annoyed teenager, although he wasn’t any more. Windfrey gestured to the stool next to him, “I need to speak to you…now more than ever.” He became more serious as the sentence went on. Wislon was about to turn away when his father continued, “Wait! Please?” he slanted his head, “You don’t want your old father to beg, do you?" He paused for a second before becoming unapologetc. "Of course you do, what was I thinking of. You don’t mind passing me my walking cane, do you?” Windfrey pointed to an old, birch walking cane that leant against a large chest. Wislon clutched the walking cane with one hand as he threw it to his father who grunted whilst catching it. “You’ve got good aim,” his father joked as he caught his breath, “You inherit that from your mother, I was never good at catching or any sporting activity. Heck, one beautiful summer day I tried to throw a disc and it landed in Mr Beft’s garden, much to his dismay. I was so terrified that Mr Beft would alert the city guards of my, “trespassing,” as he so called it that I ran up a tree to hide. Then she came,” he sighed, “such beautiful auburn hair that shone like the meadows at spring. Her ears finer than any vase moulded to perfection. No, she was perfection.” Out of the old man’s depressed face came a smile, large and wide. “Oh my, how we talked till dusk and dawn. Up that old tree, we talked until my father dragged me out by my boots.” The smile suddenly vanished, “He shouted at me that night, cursing me for so many things and then some. He told me…” Wislon interrupted, “He told you that you were a farmer. And you had to do ''farming ''things.” He watched as his father writhed his neck over to look at him, with the creases in his neck revealing themselves. “Yes.” Windfrey said in defeat, “He told me that us farmers have no time for love, nor much with elves.” Windfrey spat in disgust, “But I didn’t care, and every day that year I snuck out to meet with Jesabella. Then came winter, and we all starved in this accursed house. My father, so honourable, was out cowering to find any scrapes of food to eat for us. We were so starved. Jesabella fed me with some food that I would come home glowing like a firefly." His eyes shone as the memories flickered in his brain, but they vanished in a flash as continue his anger. "That is why we must farm; for the sacrifices our family made just to keep this land and farm.” Wislon scoffed, “Farming, what a farce.” He rolled his eyes at his father who was now grimacing. “It’s not a farce!” his father called out with a stern face as his eyes darted. “I tended this land, my father tended the land, his father tended the land, and so did his. Us Enamos, we are born farmers, never anything else.” He truly had a sense of honour inside of him. Standing up straight, Wislon continued arguing with his father, “Don’t you see father? I don’t want to spend my days cutting up barley whilst my friends run off into the woods and mountains to have their own adventures. Can’t you understand that life on a farm isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?” His father paid no attention, “Some friends, gallivanting on adventures isn’t the source of a stable income.” He scoffed before gazing into the hearth of the fire, crackling and burning. Minutes passed as Wislon looked out of the window to see the lush golden crop blooming in a long field. The autumn harvest it was, and almost every farmer in Nifi was out collecting the grain to survive when winter would come. “I’m heading into market.” Wislon sighed as he moved towards the door that led to the fine streets. Windfrey turned his head slightly as he called out, “Don’t forget to take an umbrella, the apothecary said it was going to rain later.” With those words, the door slammed shut leaving the old man alone with one less umbrella. Wislon shut the door as he began to stroll along the white cobbled path of Nifi. He at the city, past the elm and birch wooden houses to see the fine white city of Nifi, built by both men and elves alike. A friendship hundreds of years ago resulting in a place where nature and progress could work and live together. Wislon saw many other farmers; Miss Loals, the Cottonbee twins and the ranch-hands of Goldenglaive Farm, who smiled and waved. They all wanted to the Enamo paddock more than anything, that paddock could feed an entire village if it was managed properly. So it was only natural that they all would try and persuade Wislon to go into other acts such as being a cobbler or a candlestick maker. Jobs that would be just enough so when Windfrey passed away, Wislon would give the land to them. He saw their game, he didn’t say anything about it to anyone, but in his mind he was already thinking of which one should gain the paddock. He thought about it even more as thick, grey clouds came rolling down from the Bronze Mountains. “Aww shucks!” sniffed one elven farmer who was sitting on her porch, “And I thought today I could catch a good few rays.” She looked at me with a dazzling smile, “Hehe, looks like you came prepared, mister Enamo.” Wislon smiled as he pulled out a tatty old umbrella that must have been still used over a hundred years ago. The rain began to pour gently on the white streets, many passer-by’s ran for shelter but not Wislon. He liked the rain, as a child he would try to punch the rain back into the sky much to his father’s anger. A quick turn around a corner and the lowly farmer found himself in the main square of Nifi, with people storing their produce into large wooden crates which would shelter them from the rain. Wislon chuckled to himself, “Pitiful people.” Before Wislon could turn around to enter the local inn, he saw a sea of much older and tattered umbrellas and anoraks that all stood near a knight on a black steed. Curiosity got the better of him as Wislon walked down to see what was going on. The knight began to yell at the people in a rousing speech, “Under high order of her Elven majesty, Clie the fifth of House Longbow, a brave and willing knight must head to the abandoned Watchtower of Búron and slay a dragon that has tainted the wills of men and elves everywhere!” The crowd erupted in discussion, “Dragon?” they questioned themselves, not sure what to make of this news. “Dragon, never here!” cried one as some screamed in terrible fright. Category:Blog posts Category:Sample Chapter Category:The Lowly Farmer